


I'll tell you my sins

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, References to Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: “What happened?” he asks, very quietly, very softly, assuring:I’m not irritated.“I got champagne drunk,” Martín says, his gaze foggy. “It’ll pass.”Or: I wanted to write hurt/comfort.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 114
Kudos: 306





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I already have more in my google docs hence the tags
> 
> I hope y'all have fun with this

_I’ve cried, and you’d think I’d be better for it, but the sadness just sleeps, and it stays in my spine the rest of my life._

  
  


You may call Andrés a selfish bastard, sure, but who are you really calling out?

He’s just being honest.

The truth is as follows: all people are, by nature, selfish. Good deeds are fueled by the need to feel good about yourself. Sacrifice? Forgiveness? Putting someone else’s needs over your own? Andrés has a word for it and it’s called playing the victim. He’s tried it a few times and it’s very satisfying.

As for good old compassion, it’s selfish _per se_. You can only care about other people’s feelings when they’re being reflected in your own heart; every action and every emotion is selfish, because it’s filtered through your own self.

Andrés doesn’t really care for compassion. Why would he make a trash can for other people’s sentiments out of his own heart?

There are exceptions to this, however. First one, since forever, being Sergio. Second, of course - Martín.

Poor, desperate, broken Martín who yelled at him when he arrived in Palermo even though he was choking on sobs.

The worst thing you can ever do is to hurt the people you love.

This way, you hurt yourself unimaginably.

Love is not something inherent, it is something you are taught. Sounds sad? Wake up, it’s the truth.

Andrés was not a creature of love, it wasn’t the force behind his creation and neither did it accompany him in his childhood. That was, until he had found Sergio, who showed him some of it. Andrés loved his brother and therefore, he decided to try and love a wife. When he failed, he tried again and again and again and _again_. He grasped at the concept of love, but it somehow always slipped through his fingers.

Meanwhile, he managed not to notice how easily Martín slipped into his life. The realization came slowly, but not surprisingly. See, Sartre had said - _L’enfer, c’est les autres_ , meaning that our tragedy is the fact that we’re defined by how others perceive us. Andrés was obsessed with the idea; being a narcissist, an egoist, he wanted to be the sole creator of his own image and the thought that others saw him as something else was terrifying. Martín was the only exception here and the only thing that Andrés grew to love _unconditionally_. Why? Because Martín was him, of course. He understood him perfectly and without words. Every emotion that Andrés felt was quickly picked up by Martin, coloured and sent right back at him. _Coloured_ , because the only thing that would always differentiate Martín from Andrés was the way he expressed his emotions,the raw ones, the true ones, coming from his very own soul - sadness, happiness, anger.

They were honest and Andrés loved that about him.

They were honest and that’s why they could break Andrés sometimes, could make his compassion not only present, but almost visceral.

“Martín?” he steps out onto the roof, the wind tugging at his hair. The rest of la banda is still celebrating Denver’s birthday in the garden of Sergio’s house, but Martín slipped away, surely overwhelmed by sadness.

Martín’s sadness is a monster living under his skin. He’s even tried to cut it out and Andrés thinks that when he saw the scars, he’s experienced more than compassion; more like mutual hurt, twisting their very veins together, _binding_ them.

“Mm?” the man hums and he has that distant look in his eyes. Andrés hates it when Martín gets like that; he prefers joy or even anger. This is something poisonous, something that makes Martín doubt Andrés’ love, something that is, unfortunately, reasonable.

Why?

Because Andrés has always been selfish.

The problem started with very piece of attention he pulled out of Martín’s feelings for him, every time he’d left him behind for one of his women, every caring gesture thrown to him like a bone, making sure that he stays around. He’s always wanted him around. He’s never noticed how much pain he’d caused him. He’s never done it _intentionally_ , not really, but he was still to blame.

Maybe it would have been forgivable if it weren’t for what happened in the chapel. Andrés didn’t want to leave Martín with nothing, he needed a grand exit and of course the _I love you, except I don’t_ was very dramatic indeed, a tragedy worthy of the great Sophocles. 

Of course it bit him in the ass in the end. As it turned out, he loved Martín too much, missed him too much. He had to get him back and he _did_ , after having survived the heist. He ran back to Italy despite Sergio’s warnings, but there, he was met with _oh_ , _the consequences of his actions_. What he found in Palermo was a scared animal, something so broken that it was painful to look at it.

Andrés sits down next to Martín and takes a good look at him. In moments like these, it’s like trying to - funny coincidence - talk someone suicidal off a rooftop. One misstep, and he falls. So, treading carefully, he looks to make sure that he can touch him without causing damage. When he senses that Martín is calm, nowhere near the edge, he puts a hand on his back. He pats his fingers against one of Martín’s shoulder blades and the man leans against him, pliant and obedient.

“What happened?” he asks, very quietly, very softly, assuring: _I’m not irritated_.

“I got champagne drunk,” Martín says, his gaze foggy. “It’ll pass.”

Champagne drunk means Martín gets blurry like that, his edges softening; he melts and melts until he’s nothing but a tired sigh. After vodka or tequila, he gets sharper; he gets angry and bitter, he bites and snarls and scratches at others or himself.

Still, a mix is the worst. Like in Palermo, when he was alone, and afterwards, for the first few weeks, when neither Andrés nor Martín could pick up the pieces; he would drown himself in every kind of alcohol, not caring about anything other than getting himself unconscious.

“I’m sorry,” Andrés says and he means it. He’s seen the blood in his vomit that one time, he knows the state Martín’s body is in, his liver, his heart, his brain battered by the overuse, and again, it didn’t start with Andrés kicking him out in a way he thought to be merciful, but with the first time he’s asked Martín to be his best man and the poor fool drank himself under the table.

It all seems very fun to watch your friend drink and act stupid. It all seems very romantic to have someone drink out of a hopeless love. The fun and romanticism crash and fall to pieces against a single paper sheet with blood tests results that scream nothing but irreversible damage.

It’s one thing to see Martín cry; it’s another to see him months later, more or less emotionally stable, but still pale, hands shaking, whole body shivering in cold even though the evening is warm and pleasant.

“Tell me you love me,” Andrés says, because he _is_ selfish and needs reassurance.

“ _Te quiero mucho_ ,” Martín whispers, because he's wonderful like that, and he kisses him. Andrés closes his eyes. He remembers their first kiss and the way he’s tried to turn the tables as he broke Martín’s heart, tried to tell himself that he was the one making the sacrifice, tried to make it into a scene from a dramatic piece. Two years later, his illusion shattered the moment he stepped into Martín’s flat.

“How about we go to bed, hm?” he asks against his lips and Martín nods. He looks exhausted.

Andrés leads him off the roof and into their room. They take a quick shower, together, but without doing anything remotely sexual - Martín’s gaze is still distant and his sadness seeps into Andrés’ own bones.

They climb into bed and Andrés tucks him against his chest, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s alright,” he says and Martín snorts quietly.

“Are you talking to me,” he asks slowly, his tired voice slipping on vowels, “or yourself?”

“Both. Just go to sleep.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo have some nsfw but make it toxic by britney spears

Given the melancholy earlier, it doesn’t surprise Andrés when he is awoken by a pair of hands reaching for him in pure desperation. He lets out a small groan, but it’s not the first time it’s happened, so he knows the steps.

“Here,” he says first, sitting up and moving closer, letting Martín wrap his arms around him. He holds him, not too tight, even though the other man’s grip is suffocating.

Second step is to be a little stern. Decisively, he unhooks the arms from around his neck and leans back, holding Martín’s wrists firmly, almost painfully; pain grounds him and Andrés knows it very well.

“Breathe,” is the third step to fight the panic squeezing Martín’s chest and making him gasp for air.

“ _Don’t leave me_ ,” Martín begs in-between dry sobs and Andrés winces.

“I won’t, I promise,” he says, keeping his voice just harsh enough to make him listen. “Breathe through it.”

Brave little thing, he tries his best, but he has trouble inhaling and when he manages to, it’s a desperate, shaky wheeze that leaves him choking. He’s vulnerable in a way that Andrés hates.

“ _Martín_ ,” he tightens his grip.

It takes another two or three minutes, but finally, Martín manages to calm his breathing. He’s not looking at Andrés, keeps his head down, ashamed of his weakness. Andrés lets go of his wrists and instead, pulls him against his chest, holds him there and speaks quietly.

“It’s okay. It’s fine.”

It definitely isn’t. Sometimes, he gets frustrated and it’s difficult not to hurt Martín then. The sadness, the nightmares, the fear, it’s not easy to handle; you can say all you want about caring for others but in reality, it’s often pointless. The effects do not measure up to the hard work you have to put into it.

“It isn’t,” says Martín in a hoarse voice and Andrés sighs, drops his mask, smirks because Martín knows him oh so well. “I honestly don’t know how you’re putting up with me.”

You know what’s funny? He used to like Martín’s sadness, the desperate looks, the hopeless smiles, the lingering touches. It made him feel _good_ about himself, it made him feel powerful; adored, yet unapproachable. Martín’s red-rimmed eyes made him look like a poster for a beautiful, tragic romance. Andrés, lost in the fantasy, kept writing their story until the scene of their reunion, which was supposed to be full of vengeful anger and unstoppable desire.

Instead, he’d found a dirty flat and scarred wrists. Sadness and despair could be beautiful, but misery like that? Never.

“Look,” he runs his hand through Martín’s hair. “Ew, you’re sweaty. _Anyway_. Do I like the state you’re in? No, you’re still an absolute mess. I hate it. However, I _do_ love you. I want you by my side. Simple as that.”

“Funny you said that, because I don’t share the same sentiment about myself,” Martín hisses, like an angry stray cat. Andrés makes a shushing sound, dragging his hand down the other man’s back, fingers digging in just enough to make sure he feels it properly.

“Normally, I wouldn’t care if you hated yourself,” he says and holds on tighter, to the point of being uncomfortable. “I’ve always known you had limited self-respect. But this-... It was unfair. I made a mistake. You know how difficult it is for me to admit that?”

“Way to make it about yourself,” Martín says, voice still strained.

“Relax. _God_ , just-” he slips his hands under the hem of Martín’s t-shirt to press them against his ribs. “Breathe. I don’t want to sleep next to someone as stiff as a corpse.”

“Well I’m sorry for inconveniencing you like that,” he tries to pull away and he’s shaking again, working himself up. Andrés pushes him down and into the mattress, hands still on his chest, skin on skin, hot and real.

“You beg me not to leave you and three seconds later, you’re being sarcastic?” he growls. “Then maybe I should leave, hm? Do you want that? You can wallow in self-pity and drink yourself to death, then.”

Martín scoffs, rolling his eyes. Still, he doesn’t fight back; even though his hands are free now, they’re splayed out on the bed, muscles still shaky from the tension.

“Answer me,” he knows he sounds vaguely menacing. He doesn’t care.

“You are going to leave anyway,” Martín says and _oh, there it is._ The tragedy. The conflict in him. He laughs and the sound is bitter and painful. “Now, in a year-... You’re like a knife and I’ve taken so many hits already, you’re getting dulled down.”

“Mmm,” Andrés grins. “Spewing poetry, I see.”

“I need to. Otherwise, you would never listen. You get bored. It’s not going to be any different with me, is it? You’re going to bleed me dry and dispose of me. Or let me die. Make me kill myself, so that your hands are clean,” he tilts his head up. “That’s what you’d do to me.”

“And you would let me,” Andrés leans down, kisses him; bites down on his bottom lip and pulls with his teeth; lets go as Martín sighs. “You forgot about something, _cariño_. I’ve already tried that.”

Martín doesn’t move his arms, but he licks his lips and parts them slightly, tilting his head. He loves every reminder that Andrés wants him; as for Andrés, he’s well aware of the diversionary nature of the action. Martín often feels like his body is the only thing he has to offer.

But who’s Andrés to refuse such gift?

He dives in again and Martín opens his mouth for him, letting Andrés kiss him deeply, maybe a little bit too roughly for it to be considered foreplay. Andrés moves his hands upwards, rubs the palms against Martín’s nipples, swallows the moan that he gets in return and grins.

“I love the way you sound,” he murmurs and as if to prove it, rocks his hips against Martín, letting him know he’s already half-hard. Martín hisses at the friction, his head turns to the side and Andrés immediately puts his mouth to his neck.

“Why did you come back for me, then?” Martín says, arching up into the touch when Andrés scratches at his sides. He lets out a shaky breath, then adds: “And don’t give me any of that _I love you_ bullshit.”

“But it’s true,” Andrés smiles, bites into the delicate skin under his lips, sucks a mark and then swipes his tongue over it, making Martín shiver. “You’re right, though. There’s more to it.”

“Mmm-... more how?” Andrés pulls away and looks down at him, and groans with satisfaction at the sight. Martín is panting, but it’s nothing like his desperate gasps from before. His skin is flushed, not pale and sickly, his lips are wet and inviting, his eyes shimmering in the darkness.

Andrés stares for a moment and Martín loses his patience, moves to reach for him, but Andrés surges forward like a predator and pins his wrists to the bed.

“You and me, we’re intertwined,” he says and grinds against him. They groan in unison. “It’s like looking into a mirror. Like having a living, breathing reflection.”

“Oh, I’m but your reflection now? That’s fu- _uhh_ ,” Martín throws his head back when Andrés moves his hips again, as if wanting to fuck him through their clothes. “You don’t-... mind my sweat anymore?”

Andrés lets out a breathless laugh at that, loving how Martín starts to move to match him.

“Not when it mixes with mine.”

Martín whines somewhere in the back of his throat. Andrés goes back to licking and sucking at his neck, starting over the collarbone and moving all the way up to his ear. He’s painfully hard at this point, so he keeps on rutting like an animal in heat, chasing pleasure and relief. Martín is trying to wrench his wrists out of the hold, so Andrés presses down on them harder, makes him quietly gasp in pain before he swallows and speaks again. So _talkative_ , all of a sudden.

“Fuck me,” Martín hisses and Andrés thinks: _What a charming offer_. “Or let me suck you off, just- ah, just let me…”

“No,” he cuts in and snaps his hips violently, watching as Martín’s whole body arches. “I want to see if I can make us both come in our pants like some amateurs.”

“You know you can,” Martín strains, opening his mouth obscenely, searching for Andrés and Andrés kisses him again, dominant, insisting, rough, tasting some of the bittersweet champagne and to be honest, it should be repulsive; it’s intoxicating instead. He runs his tongue over the small gap between Martín’s teeth, something Martín normally would do; it feels more intimate than their cocks rubbing together, the sensation heightened by the fabric between them.

Andrés angles his thrusts better and their legs are tangled together now, with the sheet caught somewhere in-between. He lets go of Martín’s wrists, thinks about the bruises his grip must’ve left; he growls and grabs the other man’s hips instead, the flesh soft under his hands. He means to leave bruises there as well, because that’s how he likes Martín’s skin - marked with painful, purple, green and yellow stains. Preferably in the shape of his fingers.

Martín doesn’t try to reach for him this time. Instead, he lets Andrés maneuver his body however he likes.

“More,” he manages weakly and Andrés leans down again, presses their foreheads together. They breathe heavily into each other’s mouths as their grinding becomes more erratic; they lose coordination, but it’s glorious.

Martín comes first, his whole body spasming and mouth opening wider in a silent cry. He’s panting as Andrés keeps rutting against him until he, too, spends himself in his pyjama bottoms, groaning loudly and then grinning at how wonderfully dirty it all is.

His body decides not to support its own weight anymore so he lets it rest on top of Martín. His head ends up right next to the other man’s outstretched arm, so he takes the chance to kiss the scarred skin on his wrist. The bruises there will be beautiful. The scars, however, are ugly and he would love to make them disappear.

“Ew, Andrés,” Martín murmurs, his hand twitching against the loving gesture.

They rest for a few moments before Andrés drags him into the shower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he is t r y i n g

Now, Andrés is not a big fan of losing control, but again, think about it. Most people aren’t. He knows perfectly well he’s capable of being a real asshole about it. It’s a knee jerk reaction.

There are some things that can be uncontrollable: death, disease, psychopaths, accidents, the weather and, apparently, shockingly - Martín.

“Get up.”

“No.”

“We were supposed to leave half an hour ago.”

“I don’t want to.”

Andrés throws his head back and groans. Martín is curled up on the couch, staring straight ahead.

“You’re being a brat.”

“I don’t want to go on a stupid cruise with your brother and the rest of them.”

“We wouldn’t have stolen a single golden ingot if it wasn’t for these people.”

“They were nothing but means to an end. Do I really have to explain that to you?”

“Sergio was the one who perfected the plan.”

“Then go to him, for fuck’s sake! I’m not stopping you, go have fun with these two-faced, traitorous fuckers,” Martín snaps, not moving an inch.

Andrés feels the muscles in his jaw twitch as he grits his teeth.

“Fine. I hope you enjoy the sulking, you useless bastard,” he scoffs, turning on his heel and slamming the door on his way out.

Of course, the exchange ruins his whole day. He puts on a fake smirk and most members of their gang don’t seem to notice something being off. Still, Sergio keeps glancing at him not so discreetly, clearly bothered, and Nairobi seems to have taken some interest in his emotional state as well.

The worst part is not even the fight itself; they fight a decent lot. Andrés regrets leaving him alone in the house, though; he kicks himself mentally for being full of pride and easily offended, when it was just Martín. The other worst part - because yes, there are two, that’s life for you - is the fact that Martín is wrong. He keeps telling himself that everyone around him hates him and it’s simply not true. He can be insufferable, sure, just as Andrés can, but the bonds between the team are stronger than that. Martín doesn’t seem to quite understand that.

Andrés is proven right as Helsinki sits down next to him, fiddling with his hands.

“Where’s he?”

Andrés imagines his jealousy as an ugly, green little monster, a thing of cartoons. He pictures himself shooting it in the head before he smiles confidently at Helsinki.

“He’s indisposed.”

The huge bear of a man frowns, looking at Andrés with some suspicion. Andrés groans, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t do anything to him! Anything! I care about him very much, Helsinki. I love him. He was just being- “ he pouts, “... mopey.”

“If he was sad,” Helsinki says, “you should have stayed with him.”

Andrés goes quiet. The weather is wonderful and he doesn’t want to think about red-rimmed eyes, slurred words and sharp edges of glass from a broken bottle.

“You think you would’ve cared for him better?” he asks, unable to stop the venom dripping from his voice. The nasty green monster is showing off its teeth.

Helsinki shrugs.

“Well, you’re wrong. I’m the only one who can save him.”

“He could use a friend, is all I’m saying,” Helsinki looks at him and Andrés clicks his tongue, his own hands growing restless and fidgety. Finally, he gives a small nod.

“He could.”

  
  


The rest of their trip is pleasant enough, they travel between small islands for a whole day, there’s plenty to eat and drink, they get to swim and sunbathe.

By the time they climb onto the boat to go back, Andrés has made his decision.

They reach the house in the early evening and he finds Martín still on the couch, sitting up with a steaming mug in his hands.

“You’ve made yourself tea?” Andrés asks, careful, his voice neutral. Martín shrugs.

“It’s spiked with vodka, don’t get too excited,” he mutters and Andrés wants to punch him in the face for drinking so much, but, with an inhuman effort, he swallows around the curses in his throat and comes closer, kneels down in front of Martín and covers his hands with his own instead.

Martín frowns at him.

“I’m sorry,” Andrés says. Nowadays, the words come naturally to him; _I’m sorry_ and _I love you_ and _fuck you_ in equal measures.

“I’m sorry too,” he hears and smiles, puts the mug away and pulls himself up a little to give Martín a soft kiss. It’s chaste and made of love and compassion.

When he moves away, Martín is looking at him like he’s in pain.

“I brought you something,” Andrés murmurs, getting back up. He walks back to the door and opens it, and - what a wonder - Martín’s face brightens up with a wide smile.

“ _Mirko_ ,” he says and reaches out when Helsinki walks over to him and wraps him up in a bear hug.

Andrés watches, standing by the door. The ugly green creature is squeaking and growling, so he imagines himself hitting it with a bat. It helps.

Possessiveness is a powerful thing. Since he had met Martín, Andrés loved being the centre of his attention; his fascination, then adoration and finally pure, unfiltered love. Martín was perfectly capable of forming relationships with other people; the thing was, they mattered very little to him. Andrés never had to worry about him running off to another man, either; he would sleep around, but he would always come back to him. It was all very nice, until, as you already know, it wasn’t.

To be honest, on his way back to Palermo, Andrés had a moment of doubt - what if Martín had moved on? Of course it turned out that not only he hadn’t, but he broke to pieces, choking on the very love that he used to shower Andrés with.

Now, in order to fix it, Andrés is forcing himself to be selfless - which is still selfish because the reason is that _he_ wants to see Martín get better. Still, he has to let someone else close to him to do that and he is not happy about it.

Especially considering how easily Martín opens up when he’s with Helsinki, who somehow managed to strip down his walls in the Bank; who, contrary to most, seemed to actually, genuinely care about him.

Martín is basically in the other man’s lap now and Andrés presses his lips together, his fingertips digging into his palm.

Martín looks up, then, his cheek resting against Helsinki’s shoulder. He stares right at Andrés and gives him a watery smile. Andrés relaxes.

He waits another moment and when they pull away from each other, he moves to sit down on the couch behind Martín, wraps his arms around him and glances at Helsinki, lets him know: _He’s still mine_. The man nods, understands; still, he takes Martín’s face in his hands and gives him an encouraging smile.

“Dinner is in a moment. Eat with us. Let them know you, the real you.”

Under his hands, Andrés feels Martín tense and then let go with a deep sigh.

“Okay,” he says and Helsinki gently pats his cheek, which, honestly- Andrés is still surprised at their level of closeness. Then again, in the Bank he had limited time to worry about Martín; he had to try and _control_ him, instead.

“Come on,” Andrés murmurs, his lips close to Martín’s ear. “Let’s take a bath.”

The bathtub is huge and thank Sergio for that; Andrés would’ve fought him if he settled for a space less than luxurious for the two of them. Martín is sitting between his legs, his back against Andrés’ chest.

“Forward,” Andrés says, tapping at the nape of his neck. Martín bows his head and Andrés massages the shampoo into his scalp, breathing in the clean, minty scent.

“Down,” he murmurs and Martín leans back against him and slides down, under the water that reaches around the middle of Andrés’ chest. He marvels at the trust, at the fact that Martín lets him keep his head underwater, fingers running through his hair to rinse out the shampoo. He helps him up, then, and starts pressing kisses to the skin of his back. 

Call Andrés an asshole, but Martín’s body makes it easier to love him - it’s soft, with narrow shoulders, almost always clean-shaven. Not too… masculine.

_Maybe it’s fate being merciful_ , he ponders when Martín turns to him and nuzzles his jaw, reaching for his half-hard cock, eager to please. Andrés shakes his head.

“Up,” he says. Martín whines in disappointment and he laughs. “Later, I’ll let you suck on it for as long as you want.”

Martín grins, getting out of the tub.

They help each other get dressed and Andrés makes Martín stop on their way out of the room so that they can take a look at themselves in the mirror.

“Powerful,” he says.

They go downstairs to annoy everyone at dinner.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

“Look who’s alive!” Denver grins when they sit down at the table. Sergio and Raquel exchange a quick look. Andrés feels Martín exhale sharply next to him before he tilts his chin up and looks at Denver with narrowed eyes. 

“You’re never getting rid of me,” he says. 

“Pity,” Tokio rolls her eyes and Andrés tries to picture the hatred he’s feeling for her - he finds himself looking into his own eyes. 

The dinner goes like this: Helsinki, Estocolmo and, surprisingly, Denver are being very nice. Marsella doesn’t really talk much, not a surprise, but he seems at ease. Raquel, Sergio, Bogotá and Nairobi are mistrustful, surely trying to decide whether Martín is dangerous or not. They’re being dumb, but that’s their right. Río seems nervous. Tokio is being a bitch. 

She keeps her quips just tame enough so that Andrés has no plausible reason to murder her and Sergio has no reason to intervene. Andrés feels Martín tense up, though, so he does the only smart thing he can; fires back at Tokio whenever she throws out a nasty comment and keeps his hand pressed to Martín’s back, trying to ground him. Helsinki is doing a good job, too, pulling him into conversations and trying his best to include others.

At some point, it’s almost pleasant. Martín relaxes enough to lean back against Andrés, all the while talking to Estocolmo, who discreetly offers him some comfort, hidden in the softness of her voice. 

Then, of course, Tokio takes a look at Andrés and Martín and makes a face. Wierdly, _that’s_ what makes Martín snap. 

He straightens up and bangs his fist against the table. 

“Palermo… “ Sergio begins, but Martín ignores him.

“What,” he spits, “is your fucking problem with me?”

Tokio folds her arms over her chest, meeting his glare without fear. 

“I don’t like you. Simple as that. I know that you probably _can’t see that_ -”

The scars around Martín’s eyes are even more prominent as he flushes with anger, jumping up to his feet. 

“I had my eyes FUCKED because YOU couldn’t do your job!” he yells and Andrés doesn’t even try to calm him down. There’s no point. 

“You had your eyes fucked because you were obsessed with calling yourself the leader!” Tokio stands up as well. _Bloodbath it is_ , Andrés thinks, his fists clenching under the table. 

“I was protecting _you_ and _her_!” Martín points to Nairobi who immediately begins shaking her head in earnest. 

“No, no, no, Palermo,” she says. “No one asked you to do that!”

“No one asked Berlín to risk his life for you in the Mint and yet, you assholes respect him for that! What about my respect, huh?!“

“You have none for yourself,” Tokio hisses. “Don’t expect any from us, you hateful, pathetic asshole!”

Andrés gets up. Tokio glances at him, but Martín pays him no mind. He’s far too gone for that. 

“Without me,” he growls, “there would have been no plan to use to get you back your dumb boyfriend, who, if I remember correctly, YOU DISCARDED ANYWAY, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HEIST, YOU STUPID WHORE!”

Tokio looks as if she’s about to start throwing punches, but suddenly, she leans back. She smirks and Andrés knows whatever she’s going to say next is going to be the nastiest-

“What, do I remind you of Berlín?”

Martín draws in a shaky breath. Andrés knows that he should probably reach out for him, _comfort_ him, get him away from that disgusting woman, but that part of his brain shuts off. 

He steps around the table and Sergio is already getting up, grabbing at his arm, but he wrenches himself free, Nairobi and Raquel both scream something, raising to their feet-

Andrés grabs Tokio by the throat and throws her against the table, making an awful mess of their dinnerware, but he doesn’t care, he wants to strangle her, break her neck-

He only realizes he’s talking when Marsella and Bogotá are pulling him away from his wheezing victim.

“...say something like that one more time, you worthless trash, I _dare_ you to look at him, or speak to him, I’m going to break every single bone in your body-”

“ANDRÉS!” Nairobi using his actual name is the only thing that snaps him out of it. He shuts his mouth and looks up at her, blinking in confusion. He can’t remember the last time he’d blacked out like that.

Nairobi holds his gaze, her lips quivering. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a moment before he takes a look around the table. 

Estocolmo and Denver are already pressing cold beer bottles to Tokio’s swollen neck, Río is looking down at the ground, his head bowed, Raquel and Nairobi are standing very close together, both staring at him with fear and disgust. Sergio’s gaze is cold. Helsinki is looking at Martín, who, of course, has his eyes fixed on Andrés.

“Excuse me,” Martín forces himself to smile tightly. “But I’ve had enough of socializing for today.”

He turns on his heel and heads back into the house, brushing past Helsinki without as much as a look in his direction. 

“Let me go to him,” Andrés says and his voice sounds different to his own ears. Enough so that Sergio nods at Marsella and Bogotá and they both let go of his arms. 

Andrés walks into the house and up the stairs, his ears ringing. He swears he can hear the muffled sounds of breaking glass and _damn it_ , soon he’s going to immediately associate that particular sound with Martín, like a Pavlov’s dog.

The first thing Andrés notices as he steps into the dark room, illuminated by moonlight and the faint lights coming from the porch, is a broken mirror. _That’s fucking spectacular_ , he thinks. 

Normally, he would marvel at the touching symbolism of Martín’s self hatred and the broken glass, but instead, he stares at the drops of blood on the floor, black in the dim lightning, and he wishes it was Tokio’s instead. 

The sound of Martín’s ragged breathing he registers with a strange delay; then again, it all feels unreal. He finds him sitting in the corner of the bathroom, with glass not in his eyes, but in his hand. The dread he’d felt in the Bank hits him a hundred times stronger, like a wave destined to drag him to the bottom. 

Mechanically, he pulls out the first aid kit from the cabinet, falls to his knees in front of Martín and starts pulling the sharp pieces out of his knuckles. The bigger ones, he pulls out with his fingers and Martín’s blood stains his hands, and Martín is talking but Andrés is hearing him as if he was underwater. 

“She’s right, she’s right, I’m pathetic, miserable, _hopeless_ , I’ve let you do this to me, I’ve let you walk all over me and now I’m broken, and I can’t-... I’ll never get better, it’s all pointless. You, Sergio, everyone- you only ever use me, I don’t understand why you keep dragging me around with you, like a dog on a leash. Every time I feel like _something_ , it turns to _nothing_ in seconds-”

The sound fades away and Andrés cleans the cuts, wraps them up in a bandage and leans in, pressing Martín’s hands to his face. Martín, somehow, lets him.

When it all calms down and the only real thing is Martín’s breathing and his warm skin, Andrés gets up and pulls the other man to his feet. He doesn’t say a word as he strips him down to his boxers, doesn’t say anything as he undresses, too, as he leaves their clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor and walks with Martín to the bed, to _their_ bed, as he takes a white, soft cotton t-shirt out of their closet and pulls it over Martín’s head. He stays quiet when Martín puts his arms in the sleeves and frowns up at him, says his name, asks what is happening to him. He just climbs onto the bed and wraps his arms around him from behind, lies down with him, presses his nose into the crook of his neck, squeezing his eyes shut. 

It takes him some time to speak. When he does, Martín’s breath hitches in his throat. 

“I don’t want to break you. I never wanted to break you, _never_ , do you understand? If you ever hurt yourself again, I’m going to go mad, I have no idea what to do. I don’t know how to save you. I don’t know, but I’m selfish and I’m never letting you go. I want you _safe_ and _with me_ and that’s all, there’s nothing more.”

Martín reaches out, takes his hand and presses his lips against it. Andrés wants to cry; it hurts as if someone was tearing the meat off his bones. The bandages are rough against his skin. Martín tilts his head, moves a little and stretches out his neck to look at him and his eyes are clear now, wide and surprised.

Andrés doesn’t know how the fuck is it even possible that Martín seems fully sane while he’s feeling as if he was bleeding to death. 

“It’s just a broken mirror, Andrés,” Martín says and Andrés wants to hear him whisper his name a hundred times more. “There isn’t anything more to it.”

“There is,” he replies, pressing himself more against Martín’s warm body. 


	5. Chapter 5

Andrés wakes up with a violent shudder; he must’ve had a nightmare, but he doesn’t remember. He reaches blindly, but the other side of the bed is empty and cold. 

His eyes snap open and he sits up, fear making his lungs feel as if they’re being crushed by his own ribs.

Fear and pain are the easiest ways to go crazy in a short amount of time. Sadness and love can exhaust you, sure, but not quite as quickly, not quite as violently. 

The interesting thing about that, though, is this: the best way to overcome your own madness is when someone next to you is doing worse. 

For example: drunk people. Notice how quickly someone can sober up if their friend does something stupid and gets themselves hurt? Same with being afraid; you have to get yourself together if someone else is more frightened than you. Even if you’re beaten up, you can still drag yourself up and fight if it’s to protect someone else who is hurting worse. 

Martín walks into the bedroom, already dressed, holding a cup of coffee, and Andrés can breathe again. 

“Hey,” Martín says, sitting down at the edge of the bed. Andrés crawls over to him and wraps his arms around his middle, inhales his scent as Martín raises the cup slightly to avoid spilling coffee. He places it on the nightstand. 

“Andrés,” he murmurs and it sounds sweet like honey; Martín speaks Spanish, Italian and English and there is no other word in any of those languages that would ever come _close_ to the way he pronounces the name. 

“You’ve showered already,” Andrés says and he feels Martín chuckle. There are fingers in his hair and he loves it. 

“Yeah, you’ve missed out on it.”

Andrés pulls him down and starts kissing him; if there’s an edge of desperation in that, Martín doesn’t mention it. Andrés tries to lick his way into Martín’s mouth but he’s met with clenched teeth as the man grins. He growls, disappointed, but Martín just shakes his head. 

“You’re being gross, now. Get dressed,” he says against his lips. “I’ve heard Estocolmo plotting with Lisbon in the kitchen, they want to drag us all out onto the beach in another hopeless shot at integration.”

“Well, fine, but I’m going to be ostentatiously disgusting with you,” Andrés kisses him one more time before he gets up. He looks around - Martín has cleaned the room. He’s being extremely well put-together and Andrés is _proud_. 

He’s prouder still when they walk into the kitchen and find Tokio sitting by the table; Andrés feels his blood boil, but Martín squeezes his wrist so hard it hurts. 

“We’re even,” he says to Tokio, who glares at both of them, but then nods at Martín. She doesn’t really acknowledge Andrés, which is fair, to be honest. 

Río is sitting next to her, the two of them clearly having talked through some of their own issues, and he frowns at Martín. 

“What happened to your hand?” he asks just as Helsinki walks into the kitchen and the other man instantly looks worried, staring at Martín, who simply shrugs. 

“I’ve punched through a mirror,” he says casually and Helsinki is next to him in a second, inspecting the bandages. Andrés feels like swallowing his own teeth. 

“Look,” Martín unwraps the bandages once they’re back in their room after a slightly awkward breakfast. He pulls them away and Andrés winces at how his skin tries to stick to them. “It’s not bad, it’s already beginning to scab.”

He watches as Martín calmly covers the cuts with bandaids. 

Do you know what Andrés’ problem with love is? To him, it’s like a fully loaded gun. It’s like handing it to somebody and saying: _wouldn’t it be fun if you pointed that right at my head?_ Andrés’ answer would normally be: _No_ , and also: _are you fucking kidding me_? That’s what happened to Martín, after all. Andrés only realized the gun was loaded with live am munition after he’d already pulled the trigger. 

All relationships are about power; the power to hurt and heal. To show love or to take it away. Andrés was never the type to let anyone have that kind of superiority over him. Well, Sergio was an exception; they would settle for a tie, an improbable kind of balance with both of them aware and assured of the love they held for each other. 

In the case of romance, no such balance is possible. With every single one of his women, Andrés was the one in control. The girls could fawn all over him, charm him, but he would always be the one to decide whether or not to grant them his affections. They had barely any emotional influence on him; as long as they were sweet, he was generous and loving; the moment anything turned sour, he would leave without as much as a second thought, with some bad aftertaste being the only thing to linger for a few days afterwards. 

He knew Martín had the power to break him to pieces the moment he’d kissed him, because it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Hence the need to _immediately_ take back control. 

Did it work? _Fuck no_. 

When Martín is done with the bandaids, he steps closer to Andrés, who’s sitting on the bed. He leans down and does the one thing only he is allowed to do - kiss him, _really_ kiss him, without Andrés trying to fight for dominance or feigning indifference. He’s giving in, completely, closing his eyes and focusing on the feeling of Martín’s warm, soft lips against his own. 

“Don’t worry,” Martín murmurs, “I’m fine.”

Andrés’ tense muscles are relaxing slowly as Martín kisses him again, as he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip before sliding it inside his mouth and who knew it could be so _tender_. He pushes lightly at his shoulders and Andrés falls back onto the soft bedding with a quiet huff. Martín climbs on top of him, straddling his waist. He leans down and starts pressing kisses to his neck. Andrés tilts his head back, humming low in his throat. 

Martín scratches at the delicate skin behind his ear and he sighs loudly. 

“Mmm, someone likes it,” Martín purrs, his hands rubbing up and down Andrés’ arms. He kisses him again, the same way as before. Andrés strokes his knees with his thumbs, opening his mouth in a delighted smile and Martín chuckles right into it. 

“I love it when you’re like that,” he says. 

“You’re feeding off of my vulnerability?” Andrés smirks. He just can't help himself. “That’s a very messed up thing to do.”

“You would know,” Martín whispers. 

He then starts sucking on Andrés’ upper lip, his hand sneaking up to the back of his neck, pulling him up into the kiss and Andrés lets him, he lets himself be _handled_ like that. 

For a brief moment, he wonders if he would let Martín fuck him, too. 

The door handle clicks then and the hinges creak quietly. 

“Andrés, we’re going to-... _Joder_ ,” Sergio curses, stopping in the doorway. 

Martín groans and pulls away with an obscene smack. He turns a little to look at Sergio over his shoulder. 

“Do you ever knock? Five minutes more and you would have seen my dick,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Unless that’s what you _wanted_ to see, in that case, come back in five minutes.”

Andrés laughs at Sergio’s face, pulling himself up into a sitting position and wrapping an arm around Martín’s waist to keep him from falling off of his lap. 

“Stop fucking around,” Sergio rolls his eyes. “We’re heading out to the beach. Are you coming?”

“Sure,” Martín answers before Andrés can. Sergio seems thrown off; he gives them a stiff nod and leaves the room. Martín sighs, dropping his grin and wrapping his arms around Andrés. 

It’s funny how Martín goes defenseless against Sergio, of all people. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't stop posting until I get a job

A warm breeze carries a slight salty taste from the ocean and Andrés is stretched out on the sand, his eyes half-closed against the sun.

He looks at Martín through his lashes; he can’t help but let a lazy, loving smile stretch over his face. Martín didn’t take off his long-sleeved linen shirt, just as he refused to take off the upper part of his red jumpsuit most of the time they’ve spent in the Bank; he hated being pitied. But he’s not a pitiful picture now, standing barefoot, with his trousers rolled up so that they’re not dampened by the waves washing over his feet, hands on his hips as he argues with Denver and - what a sight - Cincinnati.

“This is _not_ how you make a moat, I’m telling you-”

“Palermo, it’s a sandcastle!” Denver groans.

“A sad imitation is what it is, your kid is going to grow up _retarded_ , I swear-” Martín is rolling his eyes at him, shrugging.

“Then you do it!” Cincinnati pouts finally and he sits back. Martín frowns at him, but then, with a heavy sigh, steps closer and gets to work. Andrés can hear him explaining some complicated hydraulics to Denver and an actual four year old and he shakes his head at how Martín’s passion for constructions prevails even against his general intolerance to children.

He’s about to lie back and maybe let Martín’s voice lull him into a nice nap, but then, Sergio steps into his space, blocking out the sun.

“What?” Andrés scrunches his nose up at him and Sergio takes a seat at his side. He looks nervous, so Andrés pulls himself up and crosses his legs, leaning forward a little.

“Yesterday,” Sergio says, his voice strained, “you’ve crossed a line.”

Andrés grits his teeth.

“ _I_ crossed a line? What about Tokio crossing a fucking line or two?” he growls and Sergio shakes his head.

“No,” he says, gesturing vividly with his hands. “No verbal attack comes close to physical assault. You could’ve really hurt her, besides, you had no business in interfering, it was between her and Palermo-”

“What she said,” Andrés cuts in, the edges of the words sharp like knives, “made him hurt himself.”

“That’s on him.”

Andrés stands up and he sees Sergio do the same. Now. He loves his brother very much, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to punch him if he _still_ , after all that time, after everything that happened, is going to consider Martín a nuisance.

“He is an adult man,” Sergio is speaking quickly now, as he does whenever he’s desperate to get his message across. “He’s responsible for his own actions and there was absolutely no need for you to meddle in whatever stupid fight they were having, he’s also responsible for how he _reacts_ to whatever happens and I’d rather have him break a mirror than try to hurt one of us-”

He has to pause to take a deeper breath and Andrés uses that to take a menacing step closer, narrowing his eyes.

“And what exactly is it you mean, _us_?” he drawls, the fond tone he normally directs at his brother gone without a trace, replaced by ice cold anger. “Isn’t Martín one of _us_?”

Sergio meets his glare and holds it, _matches_ it.

“... knowing you, not for long.”

That’s it. Andrés can’t quite believe he’s about to lose his temper for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, but everyone seems very eager to get on his nerves and lately, he finds himself unable to react with his usual cool charm and condescendence. Not when Martín is like that. Not when others are hurting him.

He takes a shaky breath, half a second away from lashing out at Sergio, from telling him how _he_ has hurt Martín, how Martín never gave him any actual reason to be treated the way Sergio treats him, how _it’s your fault, brother, that he’s hurt himself_ and _you’re a hypocrite_ and _maybe look at your own fucking relationship_ and _don’t make me choose again, because you’ll be unpleasantly disappointed_ and of course _fuck you-_

Before he can say any of that, a pair of arms wraps itself around his waist and Martín rests his chin against his shoulder. He holds onto Andrés with quite some impressive force, no doubt aware of what could have happened if he didn’t step in.

Sergio snorts and rolls his eyes and Martín has to squeeze harder because Andrés is ready to jump.

“I may not be in for a long time,” Martín says then, staring straight at Sergio. “But I want to try and have a good time. Come on, Sergio, I’m being very nice.”

_Did he just-_

Andrés watches as his brother sighs and nods, then takes one last, clearly worried look at them before walking off.

“Get your things,” Andrés manages to grit out. “We need to talk.”

Everyone else is still outside; the house is empty and thank fuck for that, because Andrés may end up yelling. He turns to Martín the moment they step inside.

“What the fuck was that?”

Off to a good start.

Martín shrugs.

“I have no idea what are you talking about.”

“You agreed with Sergio there! How am I supposed to defend you when you agree with his bullshit?”

“It’s not bullshit, Sergio knows you very well,” Martín seems annoyingly calm as he turns to walk into the kitchen. Andrés follows, relentless.

“How many times do I have to tell you-... Oh, there’s _no way in hell_ ,” Andrés growls when he sees Martín pull out a bottle of rum from one of the cabinets. He takes the three steps that separate them, snatches the alcohol from Martín’s hands and smashes the bottle against one of the walls. The sound makes him sick; seems like their relationship is all about breaking things.

Martín seems to agree, because he pulls back, grabs a glass of water from the counter and throws it; it barely misses Andrés’ head and crashes somewhere in the doorway.

“You,” Andrés hisses, “absolute _fucker_.”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Martín spits. He reaches for the cabinet again, but Andrés grabs his arm and twists it. Martín whimpers in pain and stares at him with wide eyes. He’s furious; well, Andrés is furious too.

“You’re not getting hammered again.”

“You’re not my fucking nanny.”

“How come? I thought that’s exactly what I was.”

Martín wrenches his arm free, takes a swing and slaps him across the face, hard. The shock is worse than the pain.

Andrés looks up at him and forces his mouth into a condescending smirk.

“I'm impressed. Have you finally grown some balls?”

He is saved from getting his face punched into a pulp by Helsinki, who rushes into the kitchen and catches Martín almost mid-air when he tries to throw himself at Andrés. Helsinki picks him up and Martín is struggling in his grip, his eyes wild, scratching at the man’s bulky arms without any mercy.

“I hate you, I hate you so fucking much, I’m going to rip you to pieces with my bare hands, you _lying_ , manipulative-”

“Martín,” Andrés raises his chin slightly and clicks his tongue. “You’re hurting Helsinki.”

Martín shuts up and looks down, sees the bloody scratches under his fingernails. He lets out a shaky breath. Helsinki is still holding him tight, his lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze determined.

Sergio is the next one to walk into the room, because that’s just Andrés’ luck. He takes a look at the broken glass, the spilled water and alcohol, at Helsinki’s arms and Martín’s face, still twisted in blind anger.

“You two,” he says calmly, although his voice is strained, “have exactly twenty minutes to get out of here. I’m going to call your contact who’s going to escort you to the borders.”

“Professor-” Helsinki starts, but Sergio cuts him right off.

“It’s not up for discussion.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is Martín’s heavy panting.

Then, Andrés speaks.

“I’ll go and pack our suitcases, _cariño_.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh I love me some wholesome relationships

Andrés is crouched over one of the suitcases, cursing under his breath at the fact that he has no time to fold his clothes properly, when he hears Martín walk into the room. 

He finds himself not knowing what to expect and he hates that. He used to anticipate Martín’s each and every move. He used to _understand_ him.

He’s kind of wondering if he’s about to get decked and that’s almost what happens - Martín crashes into him. He’s not looking to hurt him, though, he wraps his arms around Andrés’ ribs instead, fingers digging into his collarbones, forehead pressed against his back.

“I’m sorry,” he says and it sounds stifled and wet; Andrés realizes he must be crying. 

The truth is, Martín doesn’t cry often. He gets teary-eyed, sure, he gets worked up and emotional, but he rarely lets himself go like that, rarely allows himself this relief. Because that’s what it is. 

Andrés tries to think that it’s good for Martín to let it all out. It eases his own pain to look at it this way.

He puts his hands on top of Martín’s and gives him a moment before he pries him off, keeping a hold of one of his wrists as he twists around to face him. 

Martín’s other hand immediately flies to his swollen cheek, but Andrés catches it swiftly, shaking his head. It’s not important right now. There’s only one thing that matters.

He stares into Martín’s pained, desperate, tear-streaked face. 

“You have to tell me,” he says slowly, intently. “We have ten minutes before Sergio throws our asses out and you have to tell me _as much as you can,_ because I have no idea what’s happening to you.”

Martín lets out a heavy sigh, close to a sob, and nods. It reminds Andrés of that evening in the chapel and he wants to go back in time and _stay_ , instead of being an idiot.

“I don’t-... _Andrés_ ,” Martín pleads and that, he can understand. 

“Start with why you hate me, as you’ve expressed so beautifully in the kitchen. We’ll get to the rest.”

Martín lowers his head and starts talking, tears falling onto his lap, and Andrés doesn’t let go of his wrists, feeling the pulse thumping rhythmically under his fingers. 

“I hate you, because… I still don’t understand how you could be so cruel. To kiss me back and then leave me, I mean. To tell me you loved me. And leave. You _left_ , Andrés,” he spits the word out if it was a shred of glass hurting his tongue, “and I was blaming myself for it, all the time. I was thinking I was stupid, and not good enough, I thought it was my fault, that I’ve done something wrong. I thought you were disgusted by me. And when I fell apart, I-... fuck, I thought you were _right_ because I was so pathetic. I hate you for leaving, but I hate myself way more for whatever I’ve done to make you go away and for what happened with me afterwards.”

He takes a deep breath, exhales shakily. Andrés immediately wants to tell him _no_ and _you’re wrong_ and _I’m sorry_ , but he forces himself to be quiet, to let the feelings claw at his insides instead, to let Martín continue.

“And I hate you because I don’t believe you. It’s not like I don’t want to, I just can’t, do you understand that?” he looks up at Andrés and his expression is open, vulnerable; searching. “This is everything I’ve ever-... No, this is _more_ than I’ve ever wanted. Almost too much. I’ve been your friend for what, more than ten years? Then I've been alone for another two and I know we’ve been together for three, but that doesn’t-... Wasn’t your longest marriage, like, four? And I’m so fucking _irritating_ , so completely fucked-up, how am I supposed to believe that you can love something like that? That you won’t leave me? I’m hopeless and you can be so cruel, you’re selfish and you’re-... you’re crying.”

Andrés shrugs and nods. The tears are running freely down his face, his eyes not leaving Martín’s. 

“Why are you crying?” Martín asks in a shaky whisper, incredulous. Andrés sniffles. He must be looking pathetic, but his tears are for Martín, so there's that. 

“Because you think all of this is your fault. Because whenever I tell you that I love you, your mind goes all the way back to that chapel. I thought I was saving us both, but I was ripping everything away from you. Throwing away everything you gave me. However, it’s still not the worst thing I’ve done.”

His voice is steady, but the tears are hot against his cheeks. 

“The worst thing is that I loved you just the same. Until I broke us apart, we shared every feeling. Love, too. Just the _same_ , Martín. But while you gave me yours, I denied you mine. And-,” his breath finally catches in his throat. He closes his eyes for a moment, swallows, then continues. “This is not how we work. I broke the rules. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Martín tries to reach for his face. Andrés holds his wrists down, doesn’t let him, laughs in his face, but the sound is wet and hopeless.

“Look at you! You’re trying to comfort me. That's you. The-... _everything_ I’m feeling right now? That’s you, too. But the drinking, the anger, the hatred - that’s what _I_ gave you.”

There’s a part of him that wants to strangle Martín with his bare hands for looking at him like that. A part that agrees with what Sergio had said: _he’s dangerous_ , though the meaning of the word is different; Sergio was worried about Martín’s love for Andrés. The real problem, all along, was Andrés’ love for Martín.

There’s a part of him that hates Martín for making him weak. 

He could kill him, he really could; take him away somewhere and put his hands to his neck. He could feed him poison and hold him until he dies. He could take a bath with him, wash his hair and then hold his head underwater until he drowns. 

“Don’t think I’m that soft and that you’ve somehow made me mad,” Martín whispers, bringing Andrés back to the reality; to tearful eyes and shaking hands. “Sometimes, I think the only choice I have is to strangle you. Or beat you to death, break that pretty face. Or take a piece of glass and slit your throat, make you bleed as much as I did.”

Andrés stares. Slowly, his face stretches out in a grin. The corner of Martín’s mouth twitches. 

“I love,” Andrés says, “everything about you. If you were to kill me, I would gladly go and then wait for you to join me.”

Martín breaks into a full smile. The pain in Andrés’ chest twists into a kind of wild, maddening joy. 

“I could’ve walked away,” Martín is almost laughing. “I never did. I decided not to. Everyone else would, you know that.”

“I do. I need you to get used to the fact that I’m not walking away either. I tried. You haunted me.”

Martín tilts his head to the side.

“Is that why you wanted to stay behind in the Mint, you dumb asshole?”

“My secret’s out.”

“Good.”

Martín leans in; he kisses the delicate skin right under Andrés’ eye, as if wanting to taste his tears. He brushes the wet cheek with his lips. Andrés lets go of his wrists; intertwines their fingers, instead. 

“What do you want?” Martín asks, pressing a kiss into the corner of Andrés’ mouth. 

“Everything,” he says. 

“Good. Me too.”

Andrés rests his forehead against Martín’s, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. They stay like that for a moment; finally in tune. 

“What hour is it?” he murmurs when all that's left in his chest is warmth. 

Martín pulls away to take a look at the clock. 

“Twelve fifty.”

“We’ve been here for half an hour. Come find Sergio with me?”

He gets up and pulls Martín to his feet, then wraps an arm around him and kisses his temple. 

They walk past the broken mirror and take a glance at it, laughing when they see their red-rimmed eyes. 

They find Sergio in the kitchen. He gives them an exhausted look. Andrés pulls Martín closer.

“We’re packed.”

Sergio lets out a heavy sigh. 

“I was bluffing, you asshole.”


	8. Chapter 8

You would’ve thought that there was a happy ending to this story, wouldn’t you? Well, life doesn’t exactly work that way. 

Hurt is hurt, some things may be forgivable, but they are impossible to forget, some wounds never heal and some words are spoken too late to fix anything. 

Sadness doesn’t disappear; it slumbers. 

What Andrés has learned is this: only once you’ve accepted it, you can lull it back to sleep when it resurfaces. He doesn’t fight the sorrow that wraps itself around Martín anymore, because that’s the one thing in his life that’s turned out to be impossible.

It’s still fucking exhausting, though. 

There are certain things he can deal with; he talks to Sergio and learns that Sergio had been, in fact, worrying about _Martín_ , not Andrés. It’s an offense, of course, but it also means that Sergio wasn’t necessarily hostile, more like clumsily caring, so Andrés sighs heavily, promises not to fuck up this time and makes Sergio go and tell the same thing to Martín, because the poor bastard is still wary of Sergio. 

It helps. Martín is more than surprised, but he visibly relaxes.

He can deal with the drinking, although it’s never pretty. He throws the bottles out of the window, seething with barely contained anger when Martín lashes out at him and tells him _it’s your fault that I’m drinking_ and also _go fuck yourself_. In return, he tells Martín that he can go and lick the alcohol off of the sidewalk and then choke on his own vomit, he’s welcome to do so, actually.

It usually takes about half an hour after that before Martín is back in his arms, begging to be fucked senseless, because the senses are simply too much. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t pay enough attention and Martín’s sadness becomes maddening. He catches him once with a piece of glass in his hand, his sleeve rolled up. He acts before he can think of any reasonable reaction; he snatches the piece out of Martín’s hand and puts it to his own wrist.

“Is that what you want?” he snaps as Martín stares at him, disbelieving. 

“That’s-... that’s unfair,” Martín stammers and Andrés wants to tear him to pieces. 

“And what you were about to do, was _that_ fucking fair?”

Martín doesn’t say anything to that and Andrés drags him to bed; there, he holds him and tells him over and over again that they can and will hurt each other, but not like that, _never_ like that.

That’s against the rules. 

Sometimes, everything is perfectly fine. They feel like gods basking in their own glory; they feel like they own the world. 

They actually do, kind of. They travel around and they do their own little heists; for the art itself, for the fun of it. They always choose exactly what they want to steal beforehand, usually things that are one of a kind. 

Like the newest collection that they take from Armani’s headquarters a few days before the fashion week. Martín laughs as he parades in embroidered satin shirts while the speaker on the radio elaborates on the mysterious, _scandalous_ theft. Andrés dresses in the finest suit of the whole collection and they dance to an old Édith Piaf record.

Sometimes, he can’t deal with anything. There are times when Martín runs away from him. Andrés realizes that it must be hard to bear when the person who’s trying to sew your heart back together is the same person who’s broken it in the first place. So Martín runs, and hides away. 

Andrés gives him time even though it feels like defeat. If an hour or two pass by, he goes to look for him. 

The fact that he usually finds him on rooftops or by the water is not reassuring. 

It’s like Andrés has inched Martín off of a cliff, but then changed his mind and caught him just in time. The problem is this: they’re both hanging there now and Andrés has to let his tendons rip with an inhuman effort to pull them back up. 

An epic metaphor, isn’t it? Well, it’s fitting for the sacrifice Andrés is making. Not like the one in the Mint, which was nothing but a parody; an imitation.

What he’s doing right now, that’s the real sacrifice; he’s willingly letting Martín’s absolute _misery_ swallow him. There’s no way of fighting it, they can only _share_ it and wait for it to pass.

So he steps out onto the roof, every single time. 

_It’s not worth it_ , he thinks sometimes when they’re back in bed and tears prickle at his eyes from how powerless he feels. 

_I should let go_ , he thinks, because he can feel just how utterly _exhausted_ Martín is, lying right there with him. 

In the morning, they have coffee and their feet brush under the table, and Martín smiles, and Andrés thinks: _I’m never letting that go_ , because he’s selfish like that. 


End file.
